The Winter Vow

by Tim Akers

  “And in so doing, Galleux gave her life. Gladly, I might add. But it was not Galleux who brought this into the world,” Sophie said. She motioned to Elsa. “It was your friend, Sir LaFey.”

  Malcolm turned to Elsa and raised his brows. She nodded.

  “I felt it, drawing from the flames and traveling through me. It would seem I am a conduit for this… blessing.”

  “If you don’t trust me, Houndhallow, perhaps you can trust Sir LaFey. You trusted her with your son, after all.”

  “That was not my choice,” Malcolm said quietly. “And neither is this, apparently.”

  “As for the battle,” went on Sophie, “the celestials have set themselves up in a strong position. We don’t know Lady Bassion’s intentions. She has received messengers from the celestial camp, and so may have given herself to heresy; and there is the matter of her attack upon her own side when she took the Reaveholt. I never trusted her, not really.” Sophie sat back on her cushions. “She was supposed to win Sacombre’s head for me, and lost that, probably on purpose. Too taken with herself to truly serve the gods. We must assume she and the celestials have come to some sort of agreement.”

  “We can assume no such thing. That army killed hundreds of her knights, and broke her army in half as they were massing.” Malcolm pushed food around the table, uncovering the map that was supposed to be the center of their conversation. “She has lost as much to the celestials as any of us. Until she strikes her banners and opens her gates to their army, I will assume she is with us.”

  “Really? Even after she betrayed you by taking the Reaveholt?” Sophie asked. “Bassion stands for Bassion, and no one else.”

  “There is a difference between self-preservation and joining the enemy.”

  “How do you explain the messengers that have gone between them, then? Our position is already precarious enough. We have to assume an alliance between them.”

  “I agree,” the heavy-browed advisor said. “Best to hold our lines and wait for reinforcement. Surely some house in Tener, or additional forces from Heartsbridge, will break this stalemate.”

  “Remember who cut down Bassion’s army in the field, and then ambushed her while we were negotiating an alliance,” Malcolm said. “The heretics of Cinder. Keep in mind the murder of Lord Halverdt, also at Sacombre’s hand. Yes, Bassion took the Reaveholt, if only to save herself. We can squabble about past wrongs and crossed borders once this is over.” He slammed his fist down on the table. “My friends, darkness itself is before us. We must join together, with any banner that would have us as allies, and bring that darkness into the light.”

  There was a flurry of conversation around the table as potential allies were named, and possible strategies discussed. The heavy-browed advisor even suggested abandoning the field and marching on Cinderfell, to “restore the light of Strife in the darkest of holds.” Malcolm listened for a while, growing increasingly uncomfortable in the heat. Elsa was bent in prayer or concentration. She looked ill. When he looked up at Sophie, the duchess’s eyes were firmly on his. He cleared his throat and spoke up.

  “Is this how the blessed of Strife wage war?” His voice cut through the chatter, silencing the room. For a moment, the only sound was the crackle of flames from the tree outside. He looked around. They had to be reminded of their faith in Strife. He might not like Sophie’s zealotry, but it was better than Cinder’s darkness. “Is this how the bright lady asks us to do battle?”

  “What do you mean?” Sophie asked.

  “Plans and alliances and weighing the wisdom of striking down the heretic.” He pushed his chair back and started walking around the tent. “Does the vow knight hesitate when facing the gheist? Does summer tremble when night falls, or does she burn hot throughout the darkness? We have the enemy before us. We have already broken him once. Why do we relent?”

  “There is the matter of strength, Houndhallow. We can’t just—”

  “You say that I was blessed by Strife. Maybe I was, and maybe her light still lingers in my eyes. Because I look at these forces, at these maps, and I don’t see an enemy to be pondered and maneuvered around.” He stabbed his finger at the map, thumping down heavily on the celestial camp. “I see a darkness that must be lifted! I see winter, and swear to you that I have the flame to melt it!”

  Sophie was already on her feet, eyes bright as she scanned the map.

  “Lord Blakley, I have always known you as a careful general. What has changed your disposition?”

  “The heretic is before us,” Malcolm said. He drew his sword and laid it on the table. “Give me my reins, and I will trample him into dust. With Strife as my light, and her flames as my armor, nothing can keep us from victory.”

  Sophie smiled, a wicked smile that reached all the way into her zealot’s heart. She looked around the room and nodded.

  “To battle, then. And may Strife light our way.”

  * * *

  Malcolm returned to camp, reported his success to Castian Jaerdin and the other lords of their host, then left them alone to plan the coming disaster. He went back to his tent and lay down. The weight of Halverdt’s burning tree pressed down on him, even at this distance. It was all he could do to not gather his furs and crawl out into the snowstorm, praying for relief and winter’s touch, even if it meant his life.

  He had to wonder at that tree. It wasn’t natural, of course, but nor was it the sort of display the celestial church or Lady Strife were given to. That its heat should reach him all the way across the camp was disturbing.

  Worse, he knew that it wasn’t heat or light that reached him, but something more. Something deeper, pressing not against his skin, but against the spirit that moved through him. He felt it lingering at the edge of his temper, sparking anger and mistrust, drawing him back to that glorious fury. Even though he walked around like everyone else, Malcolm could tell that the fire Galleux had kindled in him was not gone. It was only waiting for something to stoke it back to life, and then he would be lost to it. And this time, Malcolm was sure he wouldn’t survive.

  Did the rest of his soldiers contain the same forge in their hearts, tamped down for now, waiting to blaze out of control? By demanding battle and their freedom, had he provided the spark that would return them to madness? How could he know until it was too late? How could anyone?

  Malcolm lay in bed, worrying deep into the night. He was nearly asleep when a sound disturbed him. Very quiet, a tearing of cloth, like linen parting under a very sharp knife. He came awake to the touch of a blade on his throat.

  “Hello, Father,” Ian whispered. “I hear you’ve gone mad.”

  41

  IAN’S FATHER LOOKED old. His hair was more white than gray, and the wrinkles that bunched up around his eyes and in the folds of his mouth spread like spider webs over his face. The hair across his chest was as white and fine as cotton silk, and the hatchwork of scars that Ian had known and admired since childhood now stood raw and puckered across an old man’s skin.

  How had this happened? Six months, and his father had aged a lifetime.

  Malcolm lifted a finger and brushed it against the sword at his neck. When Ian didn’t immediately pull the blade away, Malcolm raised his brows.

  “Have we come this far, son?”

  “There are people in this camp saying you burned with the light of the sun, led a charge against ten times your number, and came out on the other side alive and well. They say you are touched by Strife, you and all your host. Lady Strife and I aren’t on the best terms, Father.”

  “That shouldn’t come between us,” Malcolm said. “And as for the rest, let’s just say that I have my doubts.”

  “War has made a heretic of you?”

  “No. But it has not made me a zealot, either. Now get this sword out of my face before I break it across your backside, boy.”

  Anger flared through Ian, and then laughter. He sheathed the blade and stepped back, ready to run if his father called for the guards.

  “How did y
ou get in here?” Malcolm asked. “There are supposed to be measures against such things as swords at my throat as I sleep.”

  “It’s fairly easy for me to pass as a soldier in the army of Houndhallow,” Ian said. “Harder to walk the camp without being recognized, to be honest. Redgarden nearly bowled me over at one point.”

  “Be glad it wasn’t Sir Doone,” Malcolm said with a smile. “She would recognize you at a hundred yards.”

  “Is she…? Has she…?”

  “Doone is alive, though confined to the infirmary in Sophie Halverdt’s camp. And since you haven’t bothered to ask, your mother lives, as well, though I haven’t seen her since I joined up with this lot.”

  “I traveled here with Mother,” Ian said. “She continues to be well.”

  “That is probably my fault. Getting too close to the sun, and driving her into the wilds. I’m glad that she came to you, rather than striking out on her own.” Malcolm’s face clouded. “Does she speak of me?”

  “Why do you think I’m here, Father? She has uprooted every servant, soldier, and soul in Houndhallow to wrest you from this infernal pact.”

  Malcolm nodded thoughtfully. He swung his legs down to the floor and gathered his furs around him. He seemed about to ask a question when Ian blundered on.

  “What is happening here? I find you in the company of Sophie Halverdt, who has clearly gone mad, waging a war against the celestial guard, treating with the very houses that chased us out of Greenhall and killed our friends at White Lake. I have heard stories of burning pillars, gheists made of flowers, whole armies disappearing into a lake of flames…” Ian gestured helplessly. “It’s all too much to believe, much less understand.”

  Malcolm rolled his shoulders, the joints crackling noisily in the silent tent. When he locked eyes with his son, Ian could see the father he remembered from his childhood, buried under all the scars.

  “I have come a lot further than I expected, Ian, and by a different path than I thought I would walk. We have all made mistakes. I am still learning to live with mine.” Malcolm stretched, then stood up and went to the table to stare down at the map. “I have avoided this war with all my energy, but it cannot be avoided. There will be no peace without this fight. I see that now.”

  “Victory at any cost? Even an alliance with Sophie Halverdt?”

  “I like to tell myself that I had no choice, but there are always choices.” Malcolm nudged some pieces around the map, finally turning to face his son. “It is the choice I made. Another mistake, perhaps, but it can’t be undone. You cannot imagine the threat we face in the celestial guard. The things I’ve seen, Ian. The things I’ve done.”

  “You don’t hold all the blame, Father. I wasted months following Gwen Adair, when I should have been at your side.”

  “I did not allow you to be at my side,” Malcolm said. “And I stand by that. You would have been wasted in this battle. And my sins would now be on you, as well. Perhaps this way you can preserve the Blakley name.”

  “I’m not sure the church will recognize me as your heir, even if I do survive.”

  “I stood by and watched an inquisitor killed in cold blood,” Malcolm said sharply. “So neither of us is in Heartsbridge’s graces, I suspect.” He smiled weakly at Ian’s shock, then turned back to the table, busying himself with things that didn’t matter. “He threatened your mother. It’s no excuse, but it’s mine. I stood by a hundred times as inquisitors tracked down and executed suspected witches in my lands, but when he raised his hand against Sorcha…” Malcolm’s voice trailed off. “When he threatened her, I could not step aside.”

  “I’m glad,” Ian said. “Glad that you finally see that. Have you forgiven Fianna for what she did to Mother yet?”

  “If I could. After this is over, maybe I’ll travel to Heartsbridge and speak on the witch’s behalf. If I’m not taken there in chains, that is. If she still lives.”

  “You are not the only heretic, Father. I killed a vow knight, just now, outside the picket of this camp. Or what I thought was a vow knight,” Ian said. He explained about the runes in the man’s bones, his lack of control of the flames, the inferno that consumed him when he died. “Whatever gift Sophie Halverdt has given them, they do not know how to contain it. It burns them from within.”

  “I am familiar with that fire,” Malcolm said. Ian creased his brow, but Malcolm waved his questions away. “We don’t even know who our enemies are anymore. Be they saints or heretics.”

  Ian came to the table with his father. They were quiet for a long while. Finally, Malcolm cleared his throat and spoke.

  “You are my heir, Ian. You are my son. Whatever the church decides.”

  “I know. I know.”

  Malcolm nodded quietly, then set the marker he had been fiddling with down on the map and let out a long, pent-up breath.

  “So. What of this battle, Ian? Surely you didn’t come all this way to seek my forgiveness, or my apology. You say Sorcha has brought an army from Houndhallow?”

  “Of scullery maids and pagans. There is some strength in it, and if this battle were fought with heart instead of steel, we would win it a thousand times. The glory I imagined as a child, the battles I dreamed of fighting…” Ian’s voice was very fast now, very nervous. “Anyway. Whatever path you’ve followed, mine has been just as strange. I came here to speak with you at Mother’s bidding, and by her will. Without her you would have to stand this fight alone. So what are your plans?”

  “Betrayal,” Malcolm said. “I have seen it enough. Now I must employ it. Sophie Halverdt cannot be allowed to grow in power.” He lowered his voice, leaning in to his son. “I have been in secret communication with Helenne Bassion. I am not the only one. The celestials offer her peace, if she promises to hold fast in the Reaveholt, and not join our fight.”

  “They have already betrayed her once. Mother told me about your battle, how the inquisitors summoned gheists and destroyed Bassion’s lines. Why would she believe them now?”

  “She has already agreed to their terms,” Malcolm said. “In exchange for their mercy, and my death.”

  “Gods, that woman. How can she be so cruel?”

  “She does so at my request,” Malcolm said. He started arranging pieces on the map, lining up the celestials, placing golden tokens for Halverdt’s lines, a blue banner for House Bassion in the Reaveholt. “Listen carefully. Tomorrow I will take the lead of Halverdt’s forces. I have convinced her to throw caution to the wind and attack with all her might, to crush the celestials under Strife’s glory.”

  “That will never work. The celestial guard is dug in north of the Reaveholt. Even if it were a fair fight, it would take more than Strife’s glory to shift them,” Ian said. “And it’s not a fair fight. The void priests have the gheists at their sides.”

  “Void priests?”

  “Heretics of Cinder, or maybe they’re pagans,” Ian said. “It’s hard to say, anymore. The witch Fianna was among their number, and Sacombre as well. They have betrayed pagan elders, murdered Suhdrin lords, and led the houses of Tener astray. The true enemy, though all they seem to want is chaos.”

  “Chaos is the birthplace of power. If they mean to seize Tenumbra, getting us to kill each other is a fine way to go about it.” Malcolm rubbed his face. “You should believe more of the stories you hear about Sophie Halverdt. It will be a good fight, but in the end, we will fail. The celestials will break us, and I will sound the retreat. Even if we’re winning.”

  “That sounds… foolish?”

  “Yes. Because I have seen Halverdt’s madness. The celestials are one enemy, but not our only foe. Neither the void priests nor Sophie Halverdt can win this fight. Both must be destroyed if we’re to restore order to Tenumbra.”

  Ian looked over the map. “I don’t see any other forces on the board, Father. Especially now that Bassion has sworn to stay out of it.”

  “She has, but that was a lie.” Malcolm scooped the golden tokens of the army of Halverdt back, pushing th
em with the black tokens of the celestial guard. “As we fall back, the celestials will pursue, exposing their southern flank to the Reaveholt. Thinking themselves safe, you see.”

  “But Bassion will attack? You have her word?”

  “I do. She will pour out of the Reaveholt as we pass, slamming into the celestial flank. Hopefully, we will have done enough damage to the celestials that their lines will break. I will rally Halverdt, those who remain, and press the attack.” He pushed the pieces together on the map, smiling. “All sides will be devastated, and an end to the war assured.”

  “A dangerous gambit. If Halverdt fails to retreat, they will see your duplicity, and come for your neck. And if the celestials complete their rout, Bassion will not have the strength to defeat them.”

  “Wars are won with dangerous gambits, son. And this is a war we must win.”

  “What’s to keep the celestials from simply retreating? Disappearing into the Fen, or north toward Cinderfell?”

  “Because the gods have provided,” Malcolm said, smiling. “Where are your forces?”

  Ian picked up an unmarked token and placed it on the board. Malcolm grabbed it and scooted it south. “There. You will cut off their retreat, and overrun any who think to flee.”

  “I lead kitchen maids,” Ian said. “Not the best allies in this fight.”

  “I will take any mob led by my son,” Malcolm said. He clapped Ian on the shoulder. “With you at their head, they will not fail.”

  Ian shook his head. “Does Redgarden know?”

  “It was Castian’s plan. He leads the northern flank of Halverdt’s army. Originally he was supposed to cut off the retreat, but now that you’re here, that will not be necessary.”

  “I will need to move quickly. The celestials will undoubtedly have outriders here and here.” Ian pointed to the map. “I will attack the night before, to cut them off from the main body, and prevent them from warning their masters of my presence.”

  Malcolm paused for a long moment, then nodded. “Very good. But keep your mother out of this.”

  “Do you honestly think that is possible?” Ian asked with a laugh. “She will ride beside me, or before me if I am not going fast enough.” Both men stood smiling down at the table in wonder at Sorcha’s strength. Ian laid his hand on his father’s shoulder. “Come back to the Houndhallow camp with me. Just you. I got in; I can get you out. Speak with Mother.”